


Sunday Tea

by AllonsyJawn



Series: Sunday Tea [1]
Category: Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alien Biology, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Meeting the Parents, Parenthood, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 07:22:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14910909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllonsyJawn/pseuds/AllonsyJawn
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is smarter than an average human, but what if there was a reason for that? One Sunday John meets Sherlock's parents, a happy blonde girl who looks way too young to have a son in his thirties, and an eccentric man in a pinstripe suit. Doomsday never happened. Rose and Ten were never separated, and the residual Bad Wolf energy keeps Rose young. Rose/Ten, Johnlock





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I wrote this story a few years ago and it has been on Fanfiction.net, and it is already complete. There is a companion story to it I will also post called A Childhood in the TARDIS which is various mostly fluffy oneshots of Sherlock and Mycroft as children and young adults. There is also a sequel named A Family Affair...I'm sorry. It still isn't done, even a few years later. I hate to post anything I don't love, and I have written out the conclusion to that story twice and have hated it both times, so it is still to be continued. Thanks to everyone who reads, please R and R!

It started a very normal day at Baker Street—or so John Watson thought. It was Sunday, finally, and he allowed himself the rare privilege to sleep in. A bit of rest was long overdue; he had been running back and forth between his job at the clinic and his cases with Sherlock for a solid month now. On average he managed about five hours a night, but those missed hours built up on him quickly nowadays. It wasn't like he minded much. When there was an interesting case to solve he enjoyed the late nights, as long as Sherlock was talkative. Their last case had been wrapped up only days before; it had been a trying ordeal having to do with an elephant ending up somewhere…unexpected. Sherlock was on his usual 'just proved my own brilliance' high, but they never lasted long. As he lay there Sunday morning he kept expecting the detective to knock on his door (or more accurately burst in unannounced) and drag him away to find something new to investigate.

By eleven o'clock he had determined that Sherlock was not going to wake him up. He assumed his flat-mate must finally be getting some rest of his own—he hadn't slept much at all this last week—and pulled himself out of his comfortable daze to make a bit of late morning tea to drink as he read his paper. He had made it all the way to the kitchen before he noticed Sherlock lying on the couch, wide awake, staring at the ceiling. He knew better than to attempt a greeting. If Sherlock had let him sleep so long, he must be miles into his mind-palace, and any attempt at communication would be futile.

John showered quickly as his kettle boiled, and then settled himself into his chair, ready to entertain himself for as long as Sherlock was mentally absent. To his surprise he had only just opened the paper when the other man spoke.

"Good morning."

John raised his eyebrows at the clock. "Good morning. Barely morning anymore, though."

Sherlock cast an uninterested glance at the clock, furrowing his brow. "Oh. You're late. I expected you up before this. You were my alarm clock."

"Sorry," John shrugged, getting comfortable, "I don't do it too often. Since when do you need an alarm clock, anyway? I've seen you space out for days on end before."

"Plans today?" Sherlock asked, ignoring his statement.

"None," John smiled. "Thought I'd stay in. I suppose, if you're hungry, we could go get a bite later on. You should eat something, God knows when you last had a decent meal."

"I have plans."

"Oh." John said simply. They sat in silence for a few minutes, but he finally lowered the paper and peered at Sherlock. "Is this for…do you have a case you're working on?"

"Not at the moment," Sherlock said. He'd resumed his inspection of the ceiling, but at least he was responsive.

"Oh," John said again with a pause. "You…have a date then?"

Sherlock blinked. "That seems a strange conclusion to jump to."

"Well, plans," John shrugged noncommittally. "That…can indicate a date."

"Have you ever known me to date?" Sherlock asked, and John could hear the smirk in his voice.

"No, but you never make plans either. Two people, going out, spending time together, it all seems a bit too personal for you."

"We go out together all the time. Besides, I'm not going out."

"You said you had plans."

"I do, but I have them at home. I am trying to find the appropriate way to ask you to not be here when those plans take place."

"Oh," John said with a hint of a smile. "Sure. Put a tie on the doorknob next time."

Sherlock frowned at him. "What?"

"A tie on the doorknob. It's a warning to your roommate. Specifically, 'I have a girl in here, don't interrupt'."

"It's not a date, John. It's an obligatory meeting which I would rather receive in private."

John chuckled and sipped at his tea. "Right. When is this meeting, then?"

Sherlock looked back at the clock. "Any minute now."

John frowned, setting down his paper. "Now? I need some warning ahead of time, Sherlock. What am I supposed to do?"

"Like I said, you were late." Sherlock hopped from the couch, peering out the window as if he expected to see something staring back at him. He pulled his wallet from the table and pushed a few dozen pound notes into John's hands. "Go get drunk. On me. Have fun."

"It's noon on a Sunday, Sherlock. I've just woken up, I don't want a drink," he eyed the detective suspiciously. "You've never asked me to miss one of your meetings before. You once called me back from the clinic with a rubbish lie about a fire to get me home to make a meeting with a client. Why so secretive all of a sudden?"

"It's nothing," Sherlock said quickly and unconvincingly. He took John's arm and tried to lead him to the door. "It shouldn't take long, a few hours at the most. Believe me I want to be through with this obligation as quickly as possible."

John was about to protest, but his voice was cut off by a strange sound echoing through the rooms of 221 B Baker Street. It was like the screeching of an old brake, played again and again on a vinyl record. The loud 'vworping' sound filtered towards them from Sherlock's room, and for just a second John assumed it was some new experiment going horribly wrong. Sherlock sighed, dropping John's arms and closing his eyes. "I've told him to park on the street. My papers will be everywhere."

"What's going on, Sherlock?" John asked, wondering briefly if he should dash upstairs for his firearm.

His friend grimaced, looking back and forth between his bedroom door and the door that led out of the flat. "I'm terribly sorry, John, but it's too late for you now. You'll be stuck here, same as me."

"What are you talking about? What can be so terrible?"

Sherlock steeled himself, clenching his fist. "My parents are in town."


	2. Chapter 2

John smiled after a long moment, shaking his head at his flatmate. "You didn't tell me your parents were coming."

"They've only just arrived," Sherlock said, straightening out his jacket. He noticed John staring at him. "What?"

"I can't…I've never really realized that you must have parents. I can't imagine you or Mycroft any younger than you are now."

Sherlock just shrugged, still staring at his bedroom door. John wasn't sure exactly what he expected to come through the door. He quickly developed a mental image of what Sherlock's parents must be like. They would be old, but reserved and impeccably dressed. The woman would be stern and agile, the man would be distant and brilliant like his sons. It was intimidating. He suddenly found himself wishing that he had gone for a pint when he had a chance.

Nothing prepared him for the young blonde woman who eased open the door to Sherlock's room and peeked her head out into the hall. Her eyes fell on the two patiently waiting men and she smiled, a warm sparkle behind her brown eyes.

"I've found him!" she called back into the room. "Right flat, wrong room." She ran forward and pulled the tall detective into a tight hug.

Sherlock gave her only a half-smile, but it looked genuine. John frowned, staring at the young woman. Sherlock had never mentioned having a sister. She could be a cousin, perhaps? He heard the door open again and a thin man stepped out, a wide grin spread across his face. His brown pinstripe pants and jacket seemed to elongate his already lanky frame, but it suited him. His hair was wild, a chock of brown wilderness that reflected the eccentricity on his face.

He ran forward and took Sherlock's hand, pulling him into a brief embrace. He reciprocated, but not as warmly as he had with the woman. "Sorry about that. I was aiming for the sidewalk. You have admit, based on my track record that was a pretty close landing."

John was wondering what he meant when he noticed the young woman was looking at him. She took a step toward him, shooting a conspiratorial glance at the suited man. "Sherlock, is this who I think it is?"

"How can I possibly know who you think it is?" Sherlock shrugged flippantly. John recognized the tone; he was being purposefully petulant.

The woman seemed to know this too, based on the warning look she shot at him. "I think it's the famous Dr. John Watson that Mycroft has been telling us about." She smiled at John. "Am I right?"

"Yes, Ma'am," John said. He felt a bit strange, addressing someone so young like that, but there was just something about the woman that commanded respect.

"John was just on his way out," Sherlock lied quickly. "He has to be to work soon."

"It's Sunday," the man said with a raised eyebrow. "I specifically set the TARDIS for Sunday. It went against my better reason, really. I figured you might be free by the end of a weekend, but I usually hate landing on Sundays. Sundays are boring."

"Sherlock…" the blonde woman said, looking at him like he was a misbehaving toddler. "Does John have any idea who we are?"

"Oh, right," he said uncomfortably. "John, this is Rose Tyler and… John Smith."

The man in the suit scoffed, taking John's hand. "Don't be silly, Sherlock. Mycroft told us about the swimming pool last year, your whole ordeal with Moriarty. I don't think 'John Smith' will be necessary. Call me The Doctor."

John waited for him to finish, but the man had finished. "Sorry, I don't think I caught that. Doctor wh-"

"Just, The Doctor," the man said. Sherlock mouthed the words along with him, then worked very hard to suppress an eye roll.

"John," he said, a bit more hesitantly, "these are…my parents."

John stopped shaking the man's hand, staring at the three relatively same-aged people in front of him for a moment. "I…Is that like some sort of code?"

"Nope," the Doctor said with a pop of his lips. "Literally his parents. We look good, eh?"

John blinked, looking to Sherlock for an explanation. His friend seemed to be looking everywhere except at him.

"You haven't told him anything?" Rose asked.

"I didn't think…It wasn't necessary."

Rose set a hand on Sherlock's arm, something unspoken passing between them. They stared at each other a moment, and then Rose nodded. "Okay. Yes, John, we're Sherlock's parents. We'd rather not explain right now, if it's all the same with you."

John realized with a start that he was still staring at them. Was this some kind of new plastic surgery? Sherlock seemed unwilling to discuss it, even…embarrassed. John simply nodded, trying not to be rude.

"Well," the Doctor said in a long, drawn out drawl, "we've got that sorted. Did you want to go on a, um…ride in the family car, or would you rather just stay here a bit?"

"Can we just stay here and," he grimaced, "visit? If we absolutely must get through a few hours, that is."

The Doctor nodded, but John saw a bit of disappointment on his face. He smiled at Rose. "Okay. Just a quick Sunday tea with family, then."

"Oh," John said suddenly, "I'll get out of your hair and let you have some family time—"

Rose took John's hand quite suddenly, pulling him purposefully towards the door with her. "Don't be silly, John, it's about time we got to meet you! Mycroft's been telling us about you since the day you moved in, you have to stay. Mrs. Hudson keeps the best cakes, I'm sure she won't mind if we sneak a few back up here."

John was going to protest but the Doctor shut the door behind them, and suddenly it was just him and Rose in the hallway. Rose held a finger to her lips, gesturing for him to follow her down the stairs. "The Doctor's just going to have a quick word with his son while we get the tea ready," she whispered.


	3. Chapter 3

The Doctor closed the door behind John, turning back to smile as Sherlock. "Bit warm in here, eh?" he asked.

Sherlock sighed, pulling off his jacket and rolling his sleeves up past his elbows and holding out his arms. "Don't be subtle please, it's not your strong point. Go on, check them for needle marks."

The Doctor nodded sadly, gently taking his arms and examining them. "I didn't think you had relapsed. Really, that's not why we're here. We've just missed you boys."

"I'm sure you've kept busy."

"Busy enough," he nodded, pulling a stethoscope from his pocket. "We won't tell Mum that you're still on nicotine patches. She'll be happy to hear you've quit smoking, though."

Sherlock made a face at the stethoscope. "Do you really think that's necessary? I feel fine."

"Everyone needs a checkup once in a while," he said, placing the scope on the left side of Sherlock's chest. "You can't exactly walk into a regular clinic can you?"

"You're not even that kind of a Doctor. Besides, I haven't been sick a day in my life."

"Mycroft has. Do you remember his bout with scarlet fever? No, I suppose you were a bit young. Anyway, if a human virus can affect him then you're both at risk." He moved the stethoscope to the other side of Sherlock's chest, listening much more intently.

"Any change?"

"None," the Doctor said, pulling the instrument back into his deep, deep pockets. "Two hearts, the right one smaller than the other, but steadily beating. Have you been eating? Getting any sleep?"

"A few hours every couple days. I think I've eaten. John hasn't yelled at me at least, so he must have seen me have something."

The Doctor shot him a look, handing back his jacket. "You need to take care of yourself."

"My mind is as organized as it ever was," Sherlock said, rewarming the kettle and pulling cups down from the cupboards. "Everything else is just transport. Bodies come and go."

"For Time Lords, sure," he answered, following close behind him. "Your 'transport' is human. You've only got the one body, and you're stuck with it for life."

"I suppose I just don't think of it in those terms."

"Well, learn. I understand that your instincts may tell you that your first body is disposable, but it's not in your case. You said John has been making you eat?"

Sherlock nodded. "He has this notion that I need to eat and sleep every night. You should hear him go on about the time. 'It's midnight Sherlock, get some sleep. It's 3 in the morning, Sherlock, we do microwave flammable objects at 3 in the morning. It's noon, stop sleeping on the floor.' He has this idea that the time of day should determine what you're allowed to do. Time was not meant to be scheduled so arbitrarily."

"This is your choice, you know," the Doctor said, pulling a jar of jam from the fridge. "You could come with us. No time, no responsibilities, no murders. Well, almost no murders, there is the occasional… Just take a break from Earth. My offer still stands."

"Your offer to be one of the dozens of little companions you've had on the TARDIS? I'll pass, thanks."

"Well, it looks like you've found a companion of your own," the Doctor smiled. "John seems nice. Perhaps he can take care of your checkups from now on?"

"No," Sherlock said quickly. "John doesn't know about… I don't want him to know what I am."

"What you are? If he's been living here he knows everything important. You're brilliant, you're unique, and you come from an interesting family."

"We are not unique, we are freaks," he snapped. "I'd rather John never know that I'm not entirely human."

"Why?"

Sherlock ignored the question, sitting quietly across from his father. The Doctor smiled, pouring himself some tea. He knew something about caring for his friends.

Breakbreakbreakbreakbreakbreakbreakbreakbreakbreakbreakbreakbreak

John followed Rose downstairs, still trying to wrap his mind around what they were telling him. It was impossible for this young couple to be Sherlock's parents, but they all seemed very committed to the fact. The way Rose had seen right through Sherlock's façade – it made him want to believe that they had to be related.

Rose knew her way around Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. The landlady was not in today, John was fairly sure he'd heard her mention something about shopping with their neighbor Mrs. Turner. Still, Rose made herself right at home, ignoring the decoy sweets jar on the table and pulling down the tin where she kept her best cakes and biscuits.

"You've been here before then?" John asked.

"More than once," Rose said, hopping up onto the counter and munching on a biscuit. "She's a sweet lady. Do you want one?" she asked offering him the tin.

He took one tentatively, glancing back towards the stairs. "Shouldn't we be heading back up?"

"Ah, just give them a minute. We haven't seen Sherlock in a while. His schedule tends to be a bit erratic."

"How long has it been?"

"What month is it?"

John blinked. "Um, January."

She almost dropped her cookie. "January? We missed Christmas again?"

He stared at her. "How did you miss Christmas?"

She bit her lip. "I think I'll let Sherlock tell you that, if he wants to." She leaned forward staring at him intently. "Now then, we have a moment. Tell me, Dr. John Watson," she said, enunciating each part of his name as if it were some foreign language, "what kind of wizard are you?"

"Excuse me?"

"I love my son. He is wonderful, and brilliant, and the one of the most important people in the universe, but I'm not stupid. People who don't know him the way I do…they don't understand him. He puts people off. Mycroft told me about the first time he met you. He was looking out for his brother, just like we asked him to. He said Sherlock was letting someone new into his life, and he tested you. He offered you quite a bit of money to spy on him for you, and you refused. How long had you known him, then?"

"About a day," John said uncomfortably. He had no idea Mycroft had any sort of superior to report to, he'd always assumed the eldest Holmes brother was at the top of the ladder, but now he heard that Mycroft reported his actions to this little blonde woman. He wondered for a moment just how much power this young woman held. She had Mycroft, and therefore the British government, entirely at her disposal. She had Sherlock, the smartest man he'd ever met, acting like a petulant child. He wasn't sure who exactly this Doctor was, but he guessed he might have some influence himself. Whoever Rose Tyler really was, she had three powerful men wrapped around her fingers with seemingly little effort.

"You see it, don't you?" Rose asked with a smile. "That extra spark he has, the thing that makes him wonderful. I look at my boys and I see the universe in their eyes, and I think you see it too. That's half of what makes you special."

"Sherlock is amazing. Brilliant," John nodded. He ventured a bold question. "How long have you known him?"

She shook her head. "You still don't believe I'm his mother."

He thought a moment. "No. Sorry, but…it's impossible. Physically impossible."

"I'm older than I look," she assured him. "Do you want to know the other half, then? Do you know what really makes you stand out, Dr. John Watson?"

"Okay," he said, frustrated that she was not budging on her seemingly obvious lie.

"My Sherlock gets admirers. Of course he does, have you seen him? But Sherlock…he has never been one to need socialization. He used to sit in his room for days if I'd let him, just reading away and exercising that mind of his. He had it in his head that he wanted to be as smart as his father, but that's just not realistic. Not with my lousy genes anyway. The point is, never once in all of his life has Sherlock lied about who he is."

"I don't understand."

"He doesn't go up to people on the street and announce all of his family's habits and traits, sure, but he has never hid them. He doesn't care what other people think about him. Except for you. Because of you, he's been scheduling our meetings so that we always find him alone in his flat. You've been living with him for more than a year, and I've never met you. He's never even mentioned you. We might have thought he was living alone if Mycroft hadn't been keeping us up to date."

"He's never mentioned me?" John said, more surprised than hurt.

"Never. Not once. He doesn't want these two parts of his life to collide. He cares about what you think of him, John, and that's something you should be proud of."

"Sherlock… he's something else. He's a good friend, most of the time."

Rose snorted.

"What?"

"Friend. I'm sure that's what the Doctor thinks too. He thinks of everyone in terms of their worth as a being, it's one of the things I love about him, but it blinds him sometimes. He loves his companions. He'd go to the end of the world for any of them, in fact that was our first date, but he doesn't see what I see."

"What do you see?"

"Like I said, John, I know my son. He doesn't have friends. He just has you," she said, hopping down from the counter. "Come on. That should be long enough."

John stood still, trying to work through what she'd said, but he finally gave up and just followed her upstairs.


	4. Chapter 4

There had been many things about life with Sherlock Holmes that John did not believe at first. When he met Sherlock on that very first day, he did not want to believe that a man could deduce everything about him with a glance. Later, he had a lot of trouble believing that any one man could be so annoying while simultaneously being an amazing human being. However he absolutely could not believe this. There was no way in hell this young couple in front of him had been in love with each other for more than a week.

Rose and the Doctor sat across from him while Sherlock detailed in length the way he had solved his last elephant-filled case a few days before. John didn't mean to stare, but there was a draw to the couple, something intangible but very real that made him want to observe them. They sat very close as if they were trying to occupy the same space. The Doctor's hand was curled lightly over hers, so casually that John wondered if he even knew he was doing it. Sherlock's story was just as convoluted and self-praising as his versions always were, but the couple was paying rapt attention.

"So by then I had only to figure out whether the saboteur was the surgeon or the sailor," Sherlock said with a flourish. "That was obvious of course."

"Of course," the Doctor nodded, pulling a banana from the basket of fruit at the center of the table.

Rose sighed and shook her head, looking at John. "I hate when they do that. Why is it obvious?"

"The ropes that had fastened the unconscious body of Mr. Whitmore to the back of the large African Elephant were tied in bowline knots. It had to be the work of the sailor."

"I'm still not sure how you knew that," John scoffed, leaning back in his chair.

Rose looked at him in surprise. "You're kidding right? Sherlock knows every knot to be found on a boat."

"Rose—" Sherlock started trying to cut her off.

"When he was six he decided he wanted to be a pirate. He spent an entire summer studying to be one, refusing to set foot on land. Seriously, three months."

"Rose," he tried again, a bit louder.

"If we wanted to move from place to place he insisted on being carried. He said if he stood on anything but a boat or the sand he would lose his sea legs and have to start all over again. Thank goodness we could convince him that the TARDIS was just as wobbly as any ship in the ocean—"

"Mother!" he said sharply.

"Don't 'mother' me," she said decisively. "You chose to delay my meeting John Watson for far too long. Any and all embarrassing childhood stories are entirely allowed. If you had invited him to eat with us and Mycroft the last time I told you to, I could have split the embarrassment between two sons."

"Sorry," John said, holding up a finger. "I don't know that word."

"Which word?" Rose asked.

"Um, TARDIS? What was that?"

Sherlock shot his Rose a look and she backed away sheepishly. "Nothing. Sorry, Sherlock's right. It's not important."

"How is Grandmother doing?" Sherlock cut in quickly.

"She's doing well, but she wishes we would visit the old flat more. We're going to get an earful for missing Christmas again."

"Oh," the Doctor said, "Uncle Jack says hello, by the way."

"Is he still in Cardiff with…um…Iago?"

"Ianto," the Doctor corrected. "Yes. Still at the hub. Mycroft's been pulling some strings for them, getting the best equipment to keep the rift in check."

"Sorry," John said. "Rift?"

"Nothing important," Sherlock said quickly.

John set his cup down on the table, glaring at Sherlock.

"What?" the detective asked, looking genuinely confused.

"I don't appreciate this, Sherlock," John said through gritted teeth.

"Appreciate what? I don't understand."

John sighed, standing up. "I think I will go get that pint now. Excuse me."

"No," Rose said quickly, grabbing the Doctor's arm and pulling him off the couch. "Doctor, come on, let's go see if Mrs. Hudson is back yet."

She ushered the Doctor out of the door, grabbing Sherlock's jacket sleeve and pulling him close to her. "Talk to him. Right now."

She shut the door behind them, leaving the two of them alone together. Sherlock looked back at him, hands in the air. "What's happening?"

John sighed, gathering the dishes together and taking them into the kitchen. Sherlock followed him, looking very annoyed that everyone seemed to expect something incomprehensible from him. "I wish someone would just tell me what these stupid little rules are. I can't be expected to guess every time someone is upset."

John spun around, enough anger on his face to make even Sherlock stop talking. "I don't know why, I really don't, but after everything that's happened with Moriarty, and Baskervilles, and the cabbie, I actually thought we were friends."

Sherlock stared at him. "We are friends, John."

"Obviously not," he said, huffing. He was more confused than anything. Why should it matter to him that Sherlock had a past? John had a childhood as well, but it wasn't like they'd ever discussed it before. But hearing Sherlock shut him out—to actively keep things from him—it burned him in ways he cared not to admit. "Friends trust each other, Sherlock."

"I know that. I trust you. I've never given you any reason to believe I didn't. Why is all of this coming out all of a sudden?"

"Think!" John yelled out a bit too loudly, wincing when he realized the Doctor and Rose could probably hear him. He lowered his voice, but that wavering dangerousness cut into his tone. "You're the best detective in the world, figure it out."

Sherlock flinched, and John was actually pretty surprised that he seemed to be thinking it over.

John sighed. "Why are you lying to me?"

"Lying? I'm not."

"One thing that doesn't drive me absolutely crazy is the fact that you explain yourself, whether I understand it or not. You obviously don't want me to know something. You're hiding something from me, and I don't appreciate being kept out of the loop."

Sherlock stared at him a moment, suddenly realizing what they were fighting about. "It doesn't matter, John. I'm not hiding anything that would affect your life in any way."

"It's affecting my life, Sherlock. You don't even know, do you? It's like you're not even human half the time. There are two strangers in my flat who know all these things about you that I've never heard about. You all talk in riddles, and when I try to understand you shoot me down. I've been the dunce in the corner since they arrived…"

He had more to say, but the look on the other man's face made him trail off. He was used to a lot of Sherlock's expression, but guilt or shame was not something he was used to seeing drawn across that pale face. "You wouldn't understand, John."

"And how do you know that?"

"Because you already don't! You still think those are strangers downstairs. You don't believe me when I tell the truth, so why should I bother?"

John took a breath, staring him down. He walked past him grabbing his coat. "If you don't want to tell me the truth, fine. I'll be at the bar."

"John!" Sherlock said, grabbing his arms to stop him. He said nothing for a long moment.

"What?"

Sherlock huffed, pulling him towards his bedroom. "You want to know who I am? Fine." He threw open the bedroom door. "This is it, John. This is who I am."

John stared into the room. Sitting right in the middle, much too big to get in or out through the door, sat a large blue box.


	5. Chapter 5

John stared at into Sherlock's room, the shook his head. "It's a box. What is this, a new experiment?"

Sherlock shook his head, not making eye contact. "Look inside."

John furrowed his brow. "We're not changing the subject. This is important."

"I'm not changing the subject, I'm answering you," Sherlock said with a frustrated growl. He stalked over to the box and felt around the top of it for a moment, then pulled down a key. He fumbled with the lock for a moment, then slipped into the box and closed the door behind him.

If the whole thing wasn't so strange, and he was little less angry, John would have laughed. The box couldn't have been more than a yard wide on any side, and maybe seven foot tall, but Sherlock Holmes was hiding in it. Was this Sherlock's new way of avoiding socialization? The 'you-can't-see-me, I'm invisible' approach?

John waited for a long moment, then he finally rolled his eyes and pulled open the door. "Hiding from me won't change the fact—"

But John stopped talking there. He'd expected to see a small, closed in, blue walls on the inside closet, with the infuriating genius standing there like a tall broom in a cupboard. That was not what was in front of him. Inside the box was a large room decorated in a grungy coral pattern, with grated metal floor. Sherlock was standing near the center of the room in front of what appeared to be a large, circular consul full of strange gears and levers, with long glass columns at its center. The taller man leaned against the column, arms crossed as he looked calmly at John.

"Took you long enough."

John didn't answer. He looked behind him—there was Sherlock's bedroom. He was still in the flat. This didn't make any sense. He backed out of the box, trying to see if he had seriously misjudged the size of the thing. It looked just as small as it had before. John set his hands on the wood, making sure it was really in front of him. He walked around the box, trying to find some sort of hidden door or compartment that might make this make sense.

"Go ahead, say it" he heard Sherlock call from inside. "Everyone says it."

John walked back in slowly towards Sherlock, touching one of the tall columns of coral. "It's…the inside doesn't match the outside."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Okay, that is a bit new actually."

"Sherlock," John started, gripping on of the rails slowly and leaning against it. "Where are we?"

"The TARDIS!" the Doctor called from the doorway, making him jump. "It stands for Time and Relative Dimension in Space. Sorry to interrupt, we didn't hear fighting anymore so we thought we'd make sure you hadn't killed each other."

Rose came in behind him, practically beaming. "I'm so proud of you, Sherlock. This was very brave."

John glanced at all of them as if there was some big conspiracy unfolding around him. "Okay, it's the TARDIS. What does that mean?"

"Home!" the Doctor said jovially, flopping down into one of the old flight seats on a bench. "For the last several centuries, at least."

John stared at him. "Centuries?"

"I hadn't gotten around to that part yet," Sherlock said, shooting his father a look.

Rose took John's hand and sat him down on the bench. "It's a bit much. He's not prone to fainting, is he?"

"Not that I know of."

"Okay, everyone hold on," John said, holding up his hands. "This telephone box—"

"Police box," the Doctor broke in.

"Police box," John continued, "is larger on the inside than it is in the outside. That's impossible."

"No, it's merely improbable," Sherlock said. "Yes, it's impossible to fit something big into something small, but it's not impossible to put a doorway into something big on something small. Scientifically it actually is all fairly simple to understand—"

"Um, Sherlock," the Doctor said, holding up his hand, "I've noticed that when people are trying to get used to the concept of the TARDIS, they don't actually care about the science behind it. Yes, John, it's bigger on the inside."

Sherlock scoffed. "Wrong."

"Hey, I know how the TARDIS works," the Doctor said, a bit higher pitched than necessary. "I've been piloting it since long before you were born."

"Yes, incorrectly. Had I been born on Gallifrey I would have passed my operating test with flying colors. You can't manage to park on the street."

"Wait," John said, "what do you mean by piloting?"

"It's a ship. A time machine." The Doctor told him.

"Mmm, not technically a machine," Sherlock started, but Rose held up a finger and he stopped midsentence. John sighed. This was not going to be a regular Sunday."

BreakBreakBreakBreakBreakBreakBreakBreakBreakBreakBreak

"Okay," John said finally about an hour later. "Aliens are real."

"Yes," Rose nodded.

"The Doctor," John said, pointing at him, "he is an alien."

"Yep," the Doctor said with a smile.

"You two are literally his parents, so, Sherlock, you're half…alien."

"Half Time Lord, yes," Sherlock said. Leaning back against the consol.

"Well," the Doctor said, wrinkling his nose, "half Galllifreyan. Time Lord was a rank."

"A rank given to Gallifreyans who traveled in time. I believe I qualify."

"Well, General is the name given to people who lead others into battle and wear uniforms, but if you put on a costume and rounded up a posse we still wouldn't call you General Sherlock, would we?" The Doctor asked a bit snidely.

"Coming from the man with almost no medical experience who named himself 'The Doctor'."

"Quit bickering, I mean it," Rose said, pointing that powerful little finger at them.

"Rose," John continued, "you're human?"

"Yes. Well, okay, not entirely. I was born human. On Earth, right here in London actually. I met the Doctor when I was nineteen and he… looked a bit different. He'd been traveling in the TARDIS for centuries at that point, and when he got bored he would pick up a little human companion to keep him company. It was the greatest thing that had ever happened to me. Still is."

The Doctor took her hand gently. "You were never my companion, Rose Tyler," he said quietly, pressing a quick kiss to her fingers.

She smiled back at him, but continued the story. "We traveled around a bit, but I had an accident with the time vortex. It was necessary, saved a lot of lives, but it almost killed me. The Doctor saved me, but it left me a bit less than human. I don't age very fast. We didn't even notice at first. We fell in love, and we kept traveling. We went all over the universe, just exploring, for years afterwards. We saw an impossible asteroid, a diamond planet, parties and people and food like you've never imagined."

John had to smile with her. Rose's eyes were unfocused, and he saw her reliving every moment as she spoke of them.

"After about five years we noticed that I still looked twenty. Or, I guess we didn't, my mum did. You'd like her, she's a great woman. We know someone else who became immortal after a run in with the time vortex, it wasn't too unheard of. That was sixty years ago. I've hardly aged three years since."

"You're sixty?" John asked incredulously.

"Eighty," she corrected. "I'm still a lot younger than the Doctor."

"So you kept traveling after that?"

"For a while. Ten years or so I think. Then I started to wonder about…certain things," she glanced at the Doctor. "I wasn't aging, but I was still maturing, slowly. I was about thirty-five when I realized that if we ever wanted a child, it would have to be before I got too old. We weren't sure it was even possible, a Time Lord and a human, but a year later we had Mycroft. Seven years later Sherlock was a bit of a surprise, but we needed him."

"So Mycroft," he asked, "that means he's an alien too."

"More so than me," Sherlock said with a smirk.

"You have the same parents."

"Sherlock's right," the Doctor said. "With Mycroft, Rose's body didn't recognize the genes. The pregnancy was tricky; she was sick constantly, I had to monitor both of their heart rates at all times, he was born a few months early. When she was pregnant with Sherlock her body was expecting the difficulties. It made the whole thing easier, and in the end he came out slightly more human."

"My boys have been all over the universe," Rose said proudly, gripping Sherlock's arm for a moment. "At least the safe parts."

Sherlock snorted.

"The mostly safe parts," the Doctor insisted. "We kept you out of danger."

"It's not like we traveled all of the time," Rose agreed. "We had the house. Would you rather have been kept in the dark about who we were?"

"I doubt you would have succeeded at keeping anything from us," Sherlock conceded.

"Wow," John said simply, running a hand over his face as he looked over at Sherlock. "I knew you were a little odd mate, but…wow."

Sherlock seemed to wince, only for half of a second, but John caught it.

"I think it's brilliant, he told him quickly. "Everything. The TARDIS, your parents, all of it. I don't know why you hid this from me."

Sherlock looked around the consul room as if John had forgotten were they were. "You don't think we're…too weird?"

John shrugged. "I've always thought you were a bit weird. If anything, this explains a lot. The sleeping habits, your messed up sense of time, the secretiveness, weird experiments on my table, shooting holes in the wall—"

"Who was shooting holes in the wall?" the Doctor asked suddenly with a frown. "Sherlock, a gun? Really? You should know better."

"The wall had it coming," he assured him, waving him off. "John, this really doesn't bother you.

John took a moment to examine his thoughts, then he finally nodded. "It doesn't bother me. Really."

The Doctor hopped up and clapped his hands once, loudly. "Well then. John knows, we've had tea, where should we go?"

"Go?" John asked.

"Oh, I don't think that's a good idea," Sherlock started quickly, but Rose cut him off.

"Not your decision, Love. You've been a thousand places. John hasn't had that opportunity. John, do you want to see something amazing?"

John stared at her, open mouthed. "I…I have work tomorrow."

"It's a time machine, Dear," she reminded him, "tomorrow is not the boss of us."

"This is a bad idea," Sherlock said.

"It's been ages since you traveled with us," the Doctor insisted. "Just one trip, we'll have you back in two minutes. Well, relatively two minutes. I'll bring you back to the same Sunday at least."

Sherlock looked at John carefully. "I just… If you want to."

"Is it safe?" John asked.

"Not really," the other three said at the same time.

John smiled. "Yeah. Let's go."


	6. Chapter 6

John Watson had never been a very vain man. He knew his limits, his flaws, and his good qualities as well. He knew who he was yesterday. Today he realized he had always been completely wrong.

John stood in front of the open doors of the TARDIS, staring out at the vastness of the Earth. It was the largest most amazing thing he had ever witnessed, but it was only one planet. He tried to imagine the concept—billions of planets and stars at so many points in time, going on in both directions for trillions of years. He was only one man, with a very small life, alive for only eighty years or so. He was utterly insignificant.

"Boring, isn't it?" Sherlock asked, leaning against the doorway next to him.

John shot him a look. "Boring? Are you insane?"

"It's just empty space, John. You can't learn anything from up here. It's on the surface of the planet that things matter. Calendars and streets and light bulbs—they matter. You can use them to deduce things, to solve mysteries and learn about the people who use them. Space is just nothing."

John shook his head absently. "It's brilliant." The smiled slowly disappeared, and he suddenly turned to Sherlock. "Hang on, how the hell did you not know that the Earth turned around the sun?"

"Sherlock," Rose chastised gently from where she was leaning against the consul, "you know better than that."

"It was useless information, I deleted it," he called without turning to look at her.

"How am I breathing?" John asked, suddenly concerned.

"Shields. They hold the air in. The TARDIS produces its own oxygen. It's a Gallifreyan atmosphere but it's perfectly safe for humans."

John took a step back, but Sherlock rolled his eyes. "They extend almost ten feet on either side while we're in space. You're perfectly safe. Watch."

John gasped as Sherlock took a step out of the door, using one hand to anchor himself to the side of the TARDIS and climbing agilely to sit on top of the box. John gasped, panicking as he grabbed ahold of Sherlock's long, dangling legs.

"Sherlock, be careful!" he cried.

"Why?" he asked. "Am I going to fall? There's no gravity in space, John, there's only the field that pulls things toward the TARDIS and keeps others away from it. I used to sit on the roof to read. I'm just as safe as you are in there."

He turned back to the Doctor and Rose, but they were smiling cheekily at his panic. John ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. "I think I've finally gone mad."

Sherlock swung down and into the TARDIS, smirking a little. "Okay, then, you've seen the Earth. Now, where do you want to go? Anywhere in the universe, any year that was or will be. What do you want to see?"

John was overwhelmed. He walked back to the consul, leaning against the railing for a moment as Sherlock closed the doors.

"Don't rush him," the Doctor said. "There's a lot of options."

John looked to his friend. "Where would you go? What's your favorite place?"

Sherlock blinked, looking at him in confusion. "Our flat, obviously. I can go anywhere, at any time. My parents have a mobile, I could call them and ask for a ride. I don't technically belong to any time period. I've hopped around a bit. Lately I prefer the early 21st century."

"Why?" John asked.

Sherlock didn't answer at first. He looked away from John, suddenly finding the floor very interesting. "Uh, texting. Any time before this you would be expected to call, or not have a telephone at all. I prefer to text."

John raised his eyebrow "I'm sure things get easier in the future, communication wise. Why not just live further down the line?"

Sherlock didn't seem to have an answer. Rose stepped quite literally between her son and John Watson, patting the older man on the arm. "Well, Sherlock's right, that's enough star gazing. How about a trip to London in another year, then? Would you like to have a look at what your home a hundred years from now? Two hundred?"

John nodded. "Yes. Definitely."

"Ha!" the Doctor called, rushing to the controls. "Now we have a plan."

John sat quickly on the bench, fastening one of the seatbelts around himself as the TARDIS started to move. Sherlock chuckled.

"What?" he asked a bit defensively.

"I used to use that seat when I was a child. The flights aren't really that bad."

"How am I supposed to know that?" Watson asked, a bit embarrassed as he unbuckled the strap. "I'm still having trouble believing you were ever a child in the first place."

"Shall we show him your old room, Sherlock?" Rose asked with a smirk. "We could visit the house."

"Let's not," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.

The TARDIS rocked violently to the side and John grabbed Sherlock's arm for support. Rose hopped away to the doors, peeking out of the box.

"Um, Doctor, this is not the future. Right place, wrong century."

John rushed forward, peering out over her should like a child. It was London, he was sure. He knew this street, some of these structures. But everything was wrong. The streets were cobblestone. The few people walking by him in the dim light of early evening were well dressed, most of the men in old suits and women in long dresses.

"Can they…can they see us?" he asked.

"Sort of," Rose said, opening the door wider for him. "There's a perception filter around the TARDIS. They don't want to notice us, so they don't. Do you want to try for the future again?"

"No," he said, a lopsided grin on his face. "This is…this is amazing."

The Doctor clapped him on the back of the shoulder, pointing out toward a pub sign swinging in the light wind. "Let's go get that pint you wanted."

"Here?" John asked.

"Don't see why not. You look like you need one, honestly."

"You two go ahead and order us a couple," Rose called, grabbing Sherlock's arm. "Sherlock will pick up some appropriate money in the currency room, and I'll have to wear something a little more appropriate to the time. We'll meet you there."

John might have found that suspicious on another day, but his mind was a bit occupied. The Doctor led him to the pub, leaving Sherlock and Rose behind.

As soon as they were alone she turned to him, one side of her mouth pulled up in the way that he hated. It was the smile that means 'I know I'm right, Sherlock'. He shifted uncomfortably, turning away from her.

"Well, I'll go grab a bit of change, then," he said, trying to rush deeper into the TARDIS.

"Sherlock," she said, stopping him in his tracks, "don't you even dare. We need to talk."

His expression dripped in feigned condescension. "Sure, fine, I'll call more often. Terribly sorry to ignore you, I'll do better this year."

"That's not what I'm talking about and you know it. We need to talk about John."

"No, we really don't."

"Mycroft has told us about how close you two are. He says that you act as human as possible all the time, just so John doesn't notice anything is off."

"Well, that's all over now, isn't it? John knows, so you don't need to worry about me acting human."

"That's not the issue."

"Well then I don't know what the issue is," he spat.

"You never pretend for anyone, Sherlock. You never exactly how much sugar to put in someone's coffee, you don't reassure them when they're worried about you, you don't pull them into your life and drag them on cases and apologize when you've argued. I know my children, and I know when they're hurting."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You look me in the eye and tell me John Watson is just your friend."

He steeled himself, looking her square in the face. "John is my best friend, and my flat mate. Nothing else."

"Do you want him to be more than that?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.

He sighed, covering his face with his hand for a moment. "I really don't want to have this conversation. John and I are fine."

"You didn't answer me," she said, starting to grin again. "You're in love with him, aren't you?"

Sherlock scoffed. "You're being ridiculous. You know Mycroft and I—"

"Mycroft is asexual, I know, he has no interest in any kind of physical relationship at all. There's nothing wrong with that. Unfortunately he also seems to be incredibly resistant to forming close ties to anyone other than his family. I worry about him sometimes, that he might be lonely or regret his decisions later, but we're not talking about your brother right now. We're talking about you, the little boy who decided to idolize his brother and act exactly like him."

"I never idolized Mycroft."

"You did. You chose the last name he chose because you wanted to be like him."

"I picked it on a whim and you refused to let me change it."

"Normal children don't get to change their names whenever they want to, you needed a solid name. I let you pick it once, I warned you it was a permanent decision."

"I'm not a child anymore."

"That doesn't matter, and you're avoiding the topic. You always wanted to be like Mycroft because he was the only other person you knew who was half-Time Lord. You got it into your head that your brother was the template you should follow, no matter how different you were."

"It makes sense for us to be alike," Sherlock admitted suddenly. "We're the same species."

"But you're not. Mycroft is more alien, you know that. He doesn't need people, and you do. It wasn't Mycroft who would hide in our bed when the storms got too loud. You've always preferred company, at least once in a while. It's okay to be different from your brother, Sherlock. You're part human. You can need people in any way you want to."

Sherlock huffed, not looking at his mother. "John is important to me."

"You love him," she said simply, daring him to disagree.

Sherlock stared at her. "Fine. Yes. I love him. It doesn't matter."

"Sherlock!" she squealed happily, throwing herself on him in a tight hug. "This is so great!"

"It's not—"

"I always knew. I always knew you'd fall in love," she said, brushing the hair from his face. "You can be happy with him, he'll be so good for you—"

"No!" he said suddenly, pushing her back a bit. "You don't understand. It can't be like that."

"Of course it can."

"You're wrong. He's not…he's not interested. He can't be."

She sighed. "You've stayed with your Uncle Jack long enough to know that most people aren't black and white. He doesn't have to be gay to love you, Sherlock."

"It's not that. He might be interested in men, I don't know for sure. I just mean he's not interested in…me."

She frowned. "What?"

"John is…fascinating. He tolerates my friendship and sometimes my company. But obviously that's all there can ever be."

"Why?"

"Because I'm me. I'm an asshole. Aggravating. A freak. An alien. I'm thrilled that he doesn't seem to want me to move out, even after what he's seen today, but that's more than I ever dared to…" he trailed off. "John will find someone better, and I'll be happy for him. I just hope he lets me see him every now and then. That's all I want."

Rose cradled the side of his face, a deep sadness in her eyes mixed with amazement. "You really don't know. You don't see yourself, do you?"

"I see myself perfectly clearly, Mother."

"You don't. You think you do. Do you have any idea of the way John looks at you? The way he checks on you when you look away? And another thing," she said, slapping him hard on the arm, "watch what you say about my son. You may not see your good qualities, but everyone with eyes does."

He grumbled a bit, rubbing his arm where she'd hit it. "I want to keep him in my life, okay? If I ever tried to be more than his friend and he decided to leave…I couldn't handle it." Rose noticed with a shudder how his hand came to rest on the inside of his arm where his old scars were hidden under his jacket.

She hugged him again, softer this time. "I thought I could do that, too. I loved the Doctor from the first day we met. I thought, 'there's no way someone so amazing could ever love me'. I thought, 'just be a good companion, follow the rules, make him like you, and then you can stay with him for a while'. It's not enough. You'll see him with someone else, the bloody mistress of the King of France for instance, and it'll hurt too much. It'll hurt like a knife in your back, Sweetheart. It'll be worse than losing him altogether."

Sherlock sighed, reluctantly hugging her back. "It would be simpler if I just didn't have to deal with these stupid human emotions."

"Love isn't just a human emotion," she reminded him. "Your father loves me, and you boys, and almost everything else in the universe. Don't tell yourself that you're wrong for feeling something." She pressed a quick kiss to his cheekbone, patting him on the arm. "Go get the money. I won't tell him. Yet. I'll give you a few weeks. Maybe a month. Then I'm stepping in. I've made the decision."

"Mum!" he whined, following after her. "You can't!"

"I can, I will. Or would you rather it be Mycroft?"

He sighed, watching her skip away to the wardrobe. His mother had made 'decisions' in the past, and he'd never seen her fall through on one. Not once.


	7. Chapter 7

John sipped at the pint in his hand, staring dumbfounded at the scene before him. Old pals and new enemies sat around tables in the pub, arguing and laughing and belching in the fashion of a workingman just off of his shift. Some part of his mind was insisting that these people weren't really from the past. This was just a game, a role-play they had all agreed to assist in. It could be one of Sherlock's experiments—how far-fetched is too far-fetched for John Hamish Watson? It was believable, Sherlock had tricked him for the sake of science before.

No. No this was different. Even if he believed his friend would go to such lengths to dupe him, he trusted Rose and the Doctor. They knew things about Sherlock, things it had taken him years to understand. They were definitely his parents, and he didn't think they would lie.

He waved as Sherlock walked in with his mother, glad to see a familiar face. There was something strange in Sherlock's expression when he first looked at him, but it quickly dissolved into his normal look of mild boredom.

"Meet anyone interesting?" Rose asked. She took the Doctor's hand, leaning in to whisper to him. "You're right, you know, it is more fun when you have someone new on the TARDIS. You sort of take all of this for granted when it's just your life."

The Doctor nodded warmly as John shook his head. "I haven't…we haven't really talked to anyone. I'm afraid I'd louse it up."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, you know…time. Say the wrong thing, and the German's win World War Two."

"It's the eighteen hundreds, John. I don't think Hitler will hear you."

"Well, okay, bad example. I just mean…I could mess up something, right? Time is an unbalanced line, the paradoxes—"

"Pretty much resolve themselves," the Doctor grinned. "Things have a weird way of working out, even if you stick your nose in another decade's business."

"You never run into trouble, then?"

"Well," the Doctor said in long, drawn out voice, "that's not exactly what I said. But, you know, by and large, time travel is a pretty peaceful venture."

The front door to the tavern burst open and a man huffed his way inside, obviously out of breath. His long mustache blended with the dim light of the pub, and he looked white as a sheet. "I need a constable," he called. "There's been a murder."

"Oh thank God," Sherlock said hopping from the stool. "We've found something to do."

"Oh, Sherlock," Rose groaned, "must you?"

He either didn't hear her or didn't care. He was already across the room, helping the man into a chair. "Do you know who committed the murder?" Sherlock asked animatedly, "Because if you do then you can just go find a constable. It's boring if you already know who did it."

"No, I have no idea who's to blame," the man stuttered, peering at Sherlock strangely. "I've just found the man, not two streets from here. His neck…oh, Lord, it's twisted around. In fact I have no idea how someone would have gotten away with such a crime in the middle of the street. No one saw anything, there were no screams—"

"Yes, that's enough, you have my attention," Sherlock said, helping the man to his feet. "Lead the way! Come along, John."

"Sherlock," Rose warned, grabbing his sleeve. "I thought we were going to have a quick, fun trip."

He frowned. "That's what I'm trying to do. There's a case, we have to investigate. Shall we meet up later, take in a few sights before we head back—"

"Oh, no," Rose said, crossing her arms. The Doctor raised an eyebrow at her, but looked away a bit guiltily when she shot him a look. "We've just gotten ahold of you. If you're investigating, we're helping you."

"John is quite adequate in that department."

"No arguing," she insisted, standing her ground in front of the tall man.

Sherlock leaned in closely so that only the two of them could hear him. "Mother, I'm going to need some time alone with John if your little ultimatum is going to be met."

She whispered back at him. "Sherlock Tyler Holmes, do I look stupid to you? You have a month to reach that goal, and I am perfectly aware that you will wait until the last possible day to meet it. Now you either turn around and lead us all to the crime scene, or I really will tell John. Right. Now."

Sherlock backed up and clapped as if she had made some wonderful point. "Good idea, Rose. I don't have much experience in this particular time period and you two could be very helpful."

Sherlock swept from the pub, bringing John along with him. The other two followed, but lagged behind a bit. The Doctor leaned to her quietly. "You have to tell me how you do that one of these days."

"Wouldn't work for you," she said, grasping his hand. "It's a Mum thing."

"Speaking of which, since when do you dress for every time period? I assume you were having a talk with Sherlock?"

"I was," she shrugged.

He waited a moment. "Well? What about?"

She sighed. "You know, for a genius, you can be really thick sometimes."

His hand tightened on hers, his face drawn in concern. "He's not using again, is he? I checked his arms earlier—I know there are other ways to take in opiates but—"

"No!" she said quickly, relaxing his hand with hers, gently. "He's clean. I'm talking about the elephant in the room."

The Doctor smiled, "Oh! That last case he told us about? I've been wanting to talk about that one more too. Fascinating case, really. I wouldn't have pegged you for it though, you hate when we go on over the fine details a dozen times."

Rose sighed, making sure the boys were out of earshot, before she stopped the Doctor and laid her hands on either side of his face. She placed a quick peck on his lips, then pulled back. "Listen to me, Doctor. I'm talking about Sherlock's love life. Sherlock is in love with John."

"Oh," the Doctor said with a face that made it clear he did not understand. It melted into one of surprise and then excitement all in less than ten seconds. "Oh! Really? Are you sure?"

"More than sure. He told me."

The Doctor grinned. "I didn't even realize they were dating. I mean, I knew he cared about John, but I thought it was just…companionship. You can love someone without being in love with them. I suppose it makes sense though, eh? I mean they already live together, I should have assumed—"

"No, it's not like that. They're not together. Sherlock hasn't told him."

The smile faltered a bit. "What about John? Do you think he loves him back? If we push Sherlock into this and John rejects him—I don't think he could handle that. It wouldn't just set him back, Rose, it would destroy everything. Do you see the way he shows off for John? I thought he was just trying to be impressive, but it makes sense now. I don't think he could live like he was before, without John. Maybe…maybe it's better not to risk such a close friendship."

Rose tapped him on the chin lightly. "You sound like me, in the early days. You and me. Cardiff and Jack and Mickey. You remember that?"

"Of course," he nodded. "Slitheens. Seems like a lifetime ago—well, it was. I had a different face, you were just a teenager—"

"And I was already in love with you," she nodded. "Did you love me then?"

"By Cardiff?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. The mask fell and he grinned. "Yes. I loved you by the time we danced."

"But neither of us said anything."

"Like I said," he admitted, "you were young. I was afraid you'd get bored with life on the TARDIS. I thought it'd be wrong, like I was taking advantage of you."

"Leaving me to think you couldn't possibly be interested in someone as dull as me. I was afraid to tell you that I loved you, because I thought you'd just get rid of me to save us both the embarrassment. I couldn't just leave you, because life without you was miserable, but I couldn't last forever pretending that I didn't want more. That's where Sherlock is right now. He could never stand to lose John, but my baby is miserable. I trust John. If he can't love him back…he won't abandon him. I'm sure."

The Doctor kissed her forehead. "Okay. In the worst case scenario, he still has us."

"Are you coming or not?" Sherlock called from down the street.

Rose rolled her eyes and they headed off to meet the other two.


	8. Chapter 8

"It was a broken neck," John said, bending over the body of a man lying on the street. The man had scraggily hair and a beard to match, with weathered lines running across his empty face. His patched clothing was threadbare and hardly adequate, but his skin was still warm from the layer of sweat. The mud caking his thrifty shoes had left slight tracks behind him, but nothing solid enough to follow.

Their 'client', the man whom they had met in the pub, shook his head sadly. "Poor devil."

"Of course his neck is broken, a child could see that," Sherlock said, prodding the man from the pub. "But if that was all, then you wouldn't have run around looking for a constable, you would have called for one. You knew it was murder, and we know it's murder. Go ahead John, say it. What does it really look like?"

John sighed, rubbing the back of his own neck in sympathy. "It looks like someone grabbed his neck and twisted it all the way around," he admitted. "Look close enough and you can even see finger holds."

Sherlock peered closer at the body, and John could see the gears whirring in his mind. There were the sounds of footprints behind him and he realized the Doctor and Rose had finally caught up with them. The detective pulled a thin piece of paper from the deceased man's front jacket pocket, then jumped up to meet his parents.

He placed the paper in the Doctor's hands, pointing down the street with the other. "It's a business card," he announced, "for the Thompson's Savings and Loan. It's about four blocks that way, where the little restaurant Sarah Jane Smith likes with the chips will be one day. Do you remember the street?"

"Of course," the Doctor nodded. He tried to see around Sherlock to the body, but his son managed to be just in the way to block his view.

"The man had this business card with him, and he looks like he was headed home from work. I need the two of you to get down there and see if he had only just left for the day. It could be invaluable in establishing a timeline and finding his killer."

"What about you two?" The Doctor asked, a bit suspicious.

"I need John for more than just moral support, you know. He is an Army Doctor," his voice went down to a whisper, "and I imagine he would be better than any of the quacks from the eighteen hundreds. He has a more modernized education. We're going to try to establish a time of death ourselves, but it's possible that knowing when he left work could save a lot of time. If we miss each other we can just meet up at 221 B Baker Street. It won't belong to us for a century, but at least we know how to find it."

They narrowed their eyes at him, but eventually nodded, heading off down the street to find the Thompson Savings and Loan. Sherlock waved at them politely until they were out of earshot, then it fell from his face.

"Wow," John said, shaking his head. "I knew you had the streets of London memorized, but I didn't realize you had their histories memorized as well."

"What?"

"The Thompson Savings and Loan. You know exactly where it is, despite the fact that it existed a hundred years before you were born."

Sherlock snorted and shook his head, leaning down to examine the body again. "No, of course I don't. There is no Thompson Savings and Loan. Well, there may be, but it certainly isn't going to be a few blocks away."

John frowned. "You've just sent them to ask about his work schedule."

"Oh, come on John, look at him. Tattered clothes, covered in grime, he doesn't work at a Savings and Loan. See, in his hair," he said, running his hand lightly over the top of the man's head, "chimney soot. He's a chimney sweep, that's half a step above homeless by eighteen hundreds standards. I just wanted to get rid of him."

John frowned at him, realizing it was too late to call the couple back from their wild goose chase. "He had the business card in his pocket though."

"A very thin business card. A sweep isn't likely to need to store his money, he must have ducked into the building to get out of the rain and grabbed a card so he could roll tobacco with it later."

"It hasn't rained," the man from the pub said.

"What did you say?" Sherlock looked up in surprise, only just remembering that they had another man with them.

The client shifted uncomfortably. "It's just that—you said he must have ducked into the Savings and Loan to get out of the rain. There hasn't been any proper rain, not for weeks. It's a bit humid, but nothing serious—"

"Ha!" Sherlock shouted, hopping to his feet. He frowned at himself. "Oh, God, I'm not going to start saying that am I? This is why we don't spend time with my parents, John. Anyway, let's get started."

"Started with what?"

Sherlock sighed. "Do I really have to spell this out? There hasn't been any proper rain, John, but his shoes are caked in mud. Fresh mud. I thought rain would explain it, but there hasn't been any. Our chimney sweep just ran through a river bed then—not many of those nearby. I'd venture to say we start in the direction his footprints are leading and keep walking, his mud can't be more than a few minutes away. He was running, but he hadn't gone far."

"How do you know?" Their client asked, mesmerized.

"He's covered in sweat. Of course, he was a badly paid street dweller, but look at the state of his palms and knees. He fell in that mud, but didn't bother to wipe off the mud from his hands. He must have been in a hurry, and since we know he has just been murdered we can assume he was running from someone. Someone with very clean hands."

"Clean hands?"

"The other person didn't fall, evidently. We can see the fingermarks, but his neck has no mud. His attacker was more in shape, I suppose. He'd have to be to kill someone on a street in open daylight. Does this street get much traffic?" he asked.

"Sure, loads," the client nodded.

"Is it ever empty?" John asked.

"Well… I guess maybe for a few minutes, when there's a lull in foot traffic."

"Someone fast then. Very fast…who's left no extra set of footprints? Interesting. Come along, John," he said walking away quickly.

Their client cleared his throat. "Can I help?"

"No," Sherlock said quickly, "you'd be of no use and some liability."

"Sherlock," John snapped, grabbing the man's hand. "Thank you for bringing us here. You may want to alert more…proper authorities so that they can alert the man's family, maybe try to conduct their own investigation."

The client frowned. "But he knew all those things about the body, how to find the killer, even what the man did for a living. You mean… you're not with the police?"

"Not exactly," John admitted. "I'm John Watson, I'm a Doctor. This is Sherlock Holmes. He's sort of…a private detective."

"Amazing," the man said, shaking his head. "You two are absolutely amazing. People would love to hear about the things you two do."

"Must be going!" Sherlock called, already walking briskly down the street.

"I should go," John said, shaking the man's hand once again. "It was nice to meet you Mr…?"

"Doyle," the man said, still staring at the pair with a glint in his eyes "Arthur Conan Doyle."

John nodded to him, quickly running down the street to catch his friend, he almost ran into him when he turned the corner; the detective was just standing on the sidewalk, staring at a densely wooded park next to them. The wrought iron gates covered most of the park, and you could scarcely see inside it at all, but you could just make out where a muddy footprint had been left at the base of the steep trail at the base of the entrance.

"Look at that," John grinned. "A footprint. Already. You were right."

Sherlock wasn't paying attention. He stared down the street in the direction the man had been running, frowning slightly. "Why run that way?"

"Why not? If I was being chased by a killer I don't know how picky I'd be."

"That leads to a business district, but the police are the not far other way. He couldn't live in that direction, it leads to some very upscale houses."

"Does it matter?"

"He went towards people," Sherlock mused as they started up the trail. "He could have gone for help, or ducked into an empty building, but he wanted people to see him. It doesn't make sense."


	9. Chapter 9

They had followed the dirt trail for only a few minutes before they found the muddy stream. There was an indent in the mud where the chimney sweep had fallen. Sherlock examined the muddy pit, determining which direction the man had been running from.

"Sherlock—" John started, but he was cut off.

"I believe he was running north," Sherlock said. "Deep footprints—he wasn't tired yet. Perhaps if we start out north we might find another track."

"Or," John said with a smirk, "we could just go check out that old house over there."

Sherlock looked up, peering through the trees to see the simple brick house not fifty yards from the stream.

"Oh. Yes, that could be something."

John shook his head, following Sherlock towards the large, decrepit building. "Should we go back? Get your parents, maybe?"

Sherlock snorted. "Why? I don't need them to follow a simple case, John. I expect to have this one solved in minutes. It's just a way to distract myself from the doldrums of time travel." John chuckled once, and Sherlock shot him a look. "What?"

"You really don't get this do you? I'm in another time, Sherlock. My shoes are crushing leaves that should have withered away a hundred years ago. How can you possibly find this boring?"

"Have you ever stopped to think of the age of leaves before?"

"Not really."

"Well, I have. This was literally child's play for me. Grasping the concept of the universe, exploring different times, accepting the ends of things, that was remedial stuff I learned along with shapes and colors. Honestly anyone who steps foot on the TARDIS and acts like it's mesmerizing looks incredibly dull to me. The science behind it is rather obvious when you think about it hard enough."

"For you, maybe," John said, still staring at him. "I can't believe…you're really not human."

"Do you care?" Sherlock asked, a little quieter. "I understand if you were playing nice for my parents. You can still choose not to know this. Uncle Jack has developed excellent Retcon pills, we could erase this Sunday for you."

"No, I don't care. Well, yes, I guess I do, to an extent. I've been living with an alien and I didn't even know it."

"I'm not an alien," Sherlock said with a roll of his eyes. "I was born on Earth. Not necessarily in the year my birth certificate says, but on Earth. Rose wanted us to have a home planet, and Gallifrey wasn't an option."

"Why not?"

Sherlock stopped, and for just a second John saw something like regret cross his features. "It's gone, John. Gallifrey was destroyed in a war, long before even Mycroft was born. The Doctor, he's the last full Time Lord. Mycroft and I are only hybrids, but we're the only two in the universe, ever."

John blinked at him in disbelief. "There's none left?"

"Well," Sherlock shrugged, "if you believe one of my 'Uncles' is really dead, but he never does seem to stay that way. The Master supposedly died when I was ten. Theoretically, yes, we're all that's left. But if you do happen to see anyone with a fob watch and a big ego, let us know."

"Was your Uncle nice?"

"To me? Yes. It's best not to get into it— every family has its baggage. Some aunts collect cats, my family tries to either save or destroy the universe."

BREAKBREAKBREAKBREAKBREAKBREAKBREAKBREAKBREAK

"You do realize there is no Thompson's Savings and Loan on that street," the Doctor whispered to Rose, a few streets away from the crime scene. "There never has been."

"Of course," she sighed, "but if he wants to be alone with John that badly then we'll give them a few minutes. I figure one stroll around the block will do it."

The Doctor chuckled, looping his finger through hers just as her cellphone started to ring. "You may want to watch that. The people of the eighteenth century were not quite ready for selfies and Angry Birds."

She stopped in her tracks, pulling the little device from her pocket and ducking into an alley so no one would see her. "Only the boys have this number," she reminded him, checking the device.

"Did Sherlock change his mind about the wild goose chase?"

"It's not Sherlock," she told him, answering quickly. "Hello? Mycroft? Can you hear me?"

"Barely," the familiar voice crackled out of the other end. "What year are you in?"

"Um, about 1880, I think. Maybe a bit before. What about you?"

"Year 2013, age forty-four."

"Sweetheart, I can't hear you very well, is there something wrong?"

"When we renovated my private office a few years ago, one of the workers found something in the wall behind my desk. He was afraid it was classified information I had hidden so, he handed it over to me immediately. I've been hanging onto it since, just in case."

"What was it, then?"

"A note," he said, a bit grumpily. She heard the rustling of a piece of paper, and then he recited it, his voice dripping in thinly veiled sass.

"Dear brother, if you're not too busy planning your next meal or bugging the residencies of Britain's finest, please do me a favor. On Sunday, January 12th of 2013, please call your mother. Inform her to turn around and go back the way she came as quickly as possible. A mistake has been made, and it could cost John his life. Go back, find the river, find the house, bring a hammer. Give my best to Her Majesty; Sherlock Holmes."

Rose hadn't waited for the end of the massage. She was racing back towards the crime scene, the Doctor running just behind her. She's missed something, they all had, and now her son was in danger.

BREAKBREAKBREAKBREAKBREAKBREAKBREAKBREAKBREAKBREAK

Sherlock pounded loudly on the door to the house, peering into the dusty windows. No light shone from within, and the whole place had the smell of being utterly abandoned. When no one had answered in five minutes, Sherlock kicked open the door, holding the side of his coat over his mouth as the dust rushed out to meet them.

The interior was fairly simple; the building had once been a modest house. The door opened into a sitting room, empty and uncovered by carpeting or wallpaper. There were a few doors leading to other rooms and a wooden staircase to the right, leading up to the second floor.

"I think I recognize this place," Sherlock murmured. "It'll be an office building someday. A secret one, of course. Mycroft keeps his more private meetings in the middle of bloody nowhere. He's such a drama queen."

John was about to say something when he heard it. Somewhere within the house, up the stairs, someone was calling for help. He looked at Sherlock and the detective nodded, dashing up towards the stairs.

"Stay there!" Sherlock called, "We don't want to be ambushed by the killed. Watch the front door!"

John peered up the stairs, watching Sherlock disappear up into the second floor. He shuffled awkwardly, wishing he had a more interesting role to play. He wanted some action, a bit of excitement to get his adrenaline pumping. He sighed, glancing away from the staircase back to the empty sitting room.

He jumped. It must have been a trick of the light before. The room wasn't entirely empty it turned out. In the far corner, between the two doors, someone had left a bit of art in the run down house. He supposed the cement walls had made it blend in before. There was no other explanation as for how he would miss an entire statue.

"John, come up here," Sherlock called.

John grinned, bounding the stairs two at a time. Sherlock was in a room to the right, and John could only just make out his back. He ran into the room, ready for anything. Anything except what was actually there.

They were in a long, extended bedroom, with all of the furnishings torn from it. Along the walls on every side sat dozens of cages, and inside most of those cages sat humans. They wore rags, with dirt and grime covering their faces. Most of them were unconscious, but one or two were thrashing about desperately, calling to the two men for help.

"Oh my God!" John cried, trying to free one of the conscious young men, but not being able to budge the lock. "Sherlock—we have to get them out!"

Sherlock had not budged. His usually calm face had turned pale white, and he stared out among the trapped humans in the room. "You," he called suddenly to the one John was trying to help, "what brought you here? What keeps you here? What do they look like?"

"Sherlock," John scoffed, "this is hardly the time to get a description of the killer. We have to get these people out of here—"

"What do they look like?" he bellowed at the young man. "Do they look human?"

The man shook his head slowly. He seemed drowsier as the seconds passed, as if he could fall asleep at any moment. The other were slowing down as well, dropping to the bottom of the cages into a deep sleep. "No. We never see them do it, really. We see them standing at the door. We find food in our tins, laced with something to knock us out so they can come in when we're all asleep. Then when we wake up, two or three people are gone."

"The chimney sweep must have escaped," John said, turning to look at Sherlock. He paused when he saw the detective's face. Horror, pure and strong, was evident in Sherlock's eyes. But he wasn't looking at John. He was looking over his shoulder.

"John. Look directly behind me and stand up, right now. Do not turn around."

He had to. He knew he shouldn't but he had to. John turned around.

He jumped, find another statue like the one from downstairs was suddenly only about four feet in front of him.

"John! I've got that one, look behind me!"

John obeyed, turning to face Sherlock. He gasped, pointing over the detective's shoulder. "Sherlock—it's the angel statue from downstairs! It's right behind you!"

"Just keep your eyes on it!" Sherlock ordered, not breaking his gaze on the statue behind John. "Don't blink, John. Whatever you do, don't blink."


	10. Chapter 10

"Why?" John asked, staring at the stony figure behind Sherlock. They were stuck. The cages on either side of the room formed a very narrow alley. John and Sherlock were practically in the middle, a yard or two apart, facing each other. One statue stood behind Sherlock, and one behind John, blocking off their exits. There was no answer for a long moment, so he tried again. "Sherlock, what happens if I blink?"

Sherlock was looking over John's shoulder, but if he hadn't known any better he would have thought he was staring right at his face. "They're aliens, John."

"Like you?"

"No," he said quickly, "nothing like me. They're fast, and they're deadly."

"Sounds a bit like you," John chuckled once, no humor in his voice. "They just look like statutes."

"They are statues only when you see them," he said, his voice very quiet. "Close your eyes, or turn away, and they've got you. Lots of busy streets in London. I don't know why they're here—most likely an accidental shift into space-time. Whatever it was, they must be trapped here. Too many people out there, never time to sneak away without being seen."

"The people in cages?"

"Weeping angels have to feed. They take human lives, in a way, and who better to take than chimney sweeps? Tramps, beggars, prostitutes, anyone that old London town would never miss ends up in here. Plenty more where that came from."

"My eyes," John said, his voice thick with concentration. "I need to blink."

"Hold your lids in your fingers so they don't slip, and blink one at a time. Carefully."

John obeyed, but winced when he found that it made it even harder to keep them open a second time. "You didn't answer my question. What happens to you, right now, if I blink?"

"How far is it behind me?"

"Half a meter. Maybe. My eyes are blurry."

"If you drop your gaze, even for a fraction of a second, it will zap me into the past. I'll live out my life in whatever year it sends me to, and be dead by this century."

"The one behind me…" John started and trailed off.

"Yes, it will do the same thing."

"That's not what I wanted to know. Would we…would we be sent to the same year? The same place? Or would you be alone?"

Sherlock gulped, the question taking him completely off guard. "Each Angel sends someone to a different year. It's doubtful that I would ever see you again."

"We might," John said. Sherlock could see him shaking, nearly imperceptibly. "We meet up at the flat in Baker Street, okay? If you're sent to, like, 1780 and I'm sent to 1800, I still expect to see you standing there, waiting for me in Baker Street as soon as I arrive. Understand?"

Sherlock nodded, a tightening sensation surrounding his chest. John was planning. Of course he was. They couldn't keep their eyes open forever. There was no way out. No one knew they were here.

Yet. No one knew they were here yet.

"Your notebook," Sherlock said suddenly, "John, do you still carry that notebook you were using to write down my observations?"

"Yes," John said, carefully blinking one eye at a time again.

Sherlock took one step forward, then motioned John towards him. "Walk towards me, slowly."

John didn't ask questions, he simply started walking away from the statue behind him, getting closer to his friend. John reached to his back pocket, but his head turned slightly and Sherlock yelled out a warning.

"No! Wait, don't turn your head. I'll get it."

John nodded, and Sherlock wrapped his arms around him, pulling the notebook and pen from his jeans and trying his best to write out a quick message to Mycroft. They sidestepped until he could reach the wall, then he punched a small hole in the wall.

"Sherlock!" John gasped.

"Relax, the wood was very thin," he promised, shoving the note deep into the wall. "Come on Mycroft…"

They were silent for a long moment, both just staring at the angels over each other's shoulders. Despite the situation, Sherlock heard John chuckle once. "You can let me go now, Mate."

Sherlock realized with a start that he still had his arms around John. His eyes burned, and as he tried to blink them one at a time, he realized how slim their chances were. This building was old, it was bound to be renovated before Mycroft ever arrived. All the time he had had at his disposal in Baker Street, and only now, in their last few seconds, had he ever hugged John Watson—and this had been an accident. He didn't let go.

John stood in confused silence for a moment, then he patted Sherlock on the back gently. "You…you know you're my best friend. Right? Sherlock…you're my best friend."

"John…" he started, trying to make each last, precious second count. "There's something I should say…something I've always meant to say, but I never have."

"Sherlock—"

"Just let me say this—"

"No, Sherlock, behind you!"

There was a loud crash of stone and metal, echoing around a sharp screech. Another. Another.

"Doctor, up here!" Rose called from behind Sherlock. "Boys, I can see them both."

Sherlock gasped, automatically stepping back from John and closing his scorched eyes, John did the same, shaking where he stood.

Sherlock turned to find his mother smashing into the Weeping Angel's head with a large hammer. She wasn't looking at either of them, her eyes were trained on the other angel, but she was speaking to him. "I swear, Sherlock," she yelled, "if you ever put yourself in harm's way just because you're bored I will personally take this hammer to your head. Are we clear?"

Sherlock smiled, still trying to calm down. "Mycroft got my note then?"

"You're lucky he did," the Doctor said, running in behind Rose and pulling out his sonic screwdriver to work on the cage locks.

"God," John breathed, sinking to the floor. "We almost… God."

Sherlock looked away from him, helping his mother incapacitate the other Angel. The little family pulled people out of their cages, and the Doctor scanned them carefully.

"They should be fine," he announced. "They've been drugged, underfed, but they'll live."

"Are there more?" John asked, running a hand through his hair. "The Angels I mean, are there more of them here?"

"Fairly small nest," the Doctor said, shaking his head. "These should be the only two."

Sherlock approached John slowly, not looking at him. "I…I'm so sorry. This was my fault."

"What?" John asked, genuine confusion on his face.

"I…I put you in jeopardy. I'm sorry, John, If you want to go home I'll get you there immediately. I could…I could let you have some time."

John sighed. "Sherlock… You didn't… can we get home please? Both of us?"

There was an uncomfortable silence, then the Doctor clapped his hands. "Well, off to the 21st, eh?"

Rose was still smacking the second Angel in the face with the hammer, muttering. "Stupid, irresponsible, evil, sons of bit—"

"Okay," the Doctor said, gently stopping her swinging arms. "You know that won't actually kill Weeping Angels, right. They're going to reconstitute in just a few hours. We'll take the boys home, then we'll have to come back to deal with them."

"I'm perfectly aware," she spat, giving one more swing at its face. "Except, next time it'll pick someone else's baby."

"Come on," he coaxed gently, pulling her slowly from the room.

Sherlock was still not looking up from the floor. John sighed, clapping him on the shoulder once as they followed the couple out of the building. "We need to talk. Soon."

"I know," Sherlock said solemnly.

"I don't think you do," John said, clearly frustrated. He stalked ahead of him, and Sherlock watched his friend's back as he quickly descended the staircase.

Sherlock followed after him, still trying to solve the enigma John Watson presented.


	11. Chapter 11

Every time, every single time Mrs. Hudson promised herself that she would not clean the boys' flat, she would find herself at it again. She didn't know why she bothered sometimes—Sherlock would just leave his little experiments all over the place and clutter it up in a few days. She supposed it was more for John's sake; if he was going to help all of London by keeping Sherlock complacent and happy, she could help him avoid living in squalor.

She was humming to herself, vacuuming their sitting room again, when a sound just behind her made her jump. She jumped around the vacuum, searching for an intruder, when she saw the blue box appearing by the doorway. She relaxed shaking her head at the little box when the door swung open.

Sherlock popped from the box as casually as if he was simply coming home from the market. He immediately hopped into his chair, somehow managing to make his long body fit so that he was curled into a ball on the cushion.

"Long day, Dear?" she asked.

He didn't answer, but Mrs. Hudson was quickly distracted by the other three coming through the door.

"Rose!" she squawked pulling the other woman into a tight hug. "Oh, it's been ages!"

Rose hugged her back, obviously glad to see her. "It has. Mum says you've been coming around for dinner though, right? Few times a month?"

"Oh, yes," she beamed. "Lovely woman. Been keeping well?"

"Oh, God," Sherlock moaned, placing a hand over his face. "Small talk."

Rose shot him a warning look. Mrs. Hudson clicked her tongue. "In one of his moods again?" She turned and noticed who else had walked out of the box. "John! You know now, then? That's wonderful, I'm so sick of pretending I haven't met Sherlock's family."

John nodded, not really paying attention to her. He was watching Sherlock's huddled form on the chair. "It's been a long Sunday, Mrs. Hudson. Would you mind coming back later? I think we'll both probably turn in early."

She nodded, pulling the vacuum cord back. "Go anywhere interesting?"

"Have you been anywhere?"

"Oh, no," she shivered. "I'm happy just here, thank you. I don't like to set foot on boats, much less… whatever that Police Box is."

"It's really not so bad, you know?" Rose promised.

Mrs. Hudson held up her hands and shook her head, quickly heading downstairs as Rose laughed.

"Oh, Sherlock," she called, "a young man stopped by to see you."

"Client?" John asked.

"I don't know. He didn't say. Wouldn't leave a name, either. Rather handsome," she said thoughtfully. "He left his number on the mantle. Perhaps he'll drop by again. I'm sure he will, if it was anything important."

"Best be off," the Doctor said, shooting his sulking son a look. "Good to see you, Sherlock. We'll be by again."

"Not surprising," the man mumbled from his little nest.

The Doctor grinned at John shaking his hand. "And wonderful to meet you, Dr. Watson."

Rose gave him a tight hug, and then she leaned over her son so that only he could hear her. "A month, Sherlock. Maybe less. You have to tell him."

Sherlock huffed slightly, and she patted him on the leg as she followed the Doctor into the TARDIS.

John watched as the box faded away, and then finally they were alone. He crossed his arms at the crumpled, motionless form of his flat mate. There was a full minute of heavy silence, then finally John sighed, throwing his hands up uselessly.

"I was hoping to talk to you, but if you'd rather stay locked away in your mind palace—"

"I'm not," Sherlock said quickly. "I'm perfectly aware."

"Then what are you doing? Turn around so I can see your face."

"I'd rather not. I did not get much sleep, and it seems to be catching up with me. I'm resting, but I'm listening."

"That's bloody convenient," John spat. "You just happen to need sleep at the same time we're going to going to have a row."

"We don't need to fight, John. I understand. My debit card is on the table. Use it for your hotel, please."

John frowned. "My hotel?"

"Oh," Sherlock said quickly, "I suppose you're right. You stay in the flat, I'll leave. You can go on to bed, I'll be gone within the hour."

John rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Why would I want to leave, Sherlock? Why would I want you to leave?"

"I get it, really," Sherlock insisted, still not looking at him. "The TARDIS, my parents, me, it all seems a bit more real once you've been put in danger. You should be allowed to think about things for a while. I can give you as much time as you need."

John chuckled joylessly. "You bloody idiot. I don't need time to think about anything, I told you I was okay with this."

"With evil statues that try to kill us?"

"With you, Sherlock. I can't expect every corner of the universe to be gumdrops and rainbows. Do not go to a hotel."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. "Okay."

John's frustration went out of his voice. "I don't… I doubt we'll be able to really talk about anything while you're like this. If you're going to sleep, I'm going out. We're out of milk anyway. See you tomorrow morning?"

"Of course," Sherlock muttered. He heard shuffling as John pulled his coat back on.

"John?" he asked suddenly.

"Yes?"

Words caught in his throat. "N-nothing. Sorry, it's nothing."

After he was sure John had left, he slowly unfolded himself from the chair. He wiped a sleeve over his wet, red eyes, rushing to the sink to rub some cold water on his face. He'd come way too close this time, too close to someone seeing him break down like this. He'd been sure, sure that John was finally done with him. Now he knew that John was coming back, but the tears still flowed from his burning face.

He had to tell him. Soon. And when he did, that would be the end of his association with John Watson. Some things were too impossible to hope for. John would never be able to live comfortably in their flat once he knew that his flatmate was in love with him. He had only a few weeks left, at most. A few weeks to spend as much time with John as he could, to store up a room in his mind full of memories that he could live off of once he was forcibly removed from John's life.

His phone buzzed. He cast a casual glance at it, then threw it onto the table angrily. "Not now, Mycroft." He spat, leaning his long frame against the counter and covering his face with his hands. The phone buzzed desperately along the tabletop.

BREAKBREAKBREAKBREAKBREAKBREAKBREAK

Mycroft held his eyes closed, breathing shakily into the phone on the fourth ring.

Please Sherlock. Answer the phone.

After three more rings he sighed, accepting the fact that his brother had not answered. He leaned his head back against the wall. The handcuffs around his wrists rubbed against his skin sharply, and he felt a trickle of blood run down his palm.

The man holding the phone to his ear let out a small giggle that did not fit his face. "What's wrong, Mr. Holmes? Has your brother decided not to answer your call? Then who will come and rescue you?"

Mycroft didn't answer. He stared straight ahead, trying to ignore the man. He had only been off the phone with his mother for a few minutes when someone had struck him from behind. How they had managed to get into his private office, he had no idea. What mattered was that he had awoken in an unfamiliar, dark place, handcuffed to a very thick pipe.

Jim Moriarty knelt in front of him, waving the still ringing phone in front of him with a wide smile across his gloating face. "Are we really that surprised that Sherlock didn't answer?" he asked conspiratorially. "Not your biggest fan, is he?"

"It doesn't matter," Mycroft spat, "I won't be here for long."

"Oh, I think you might," he taunted in a sing-song voice. "Your office is under the impression that you are doing some undercover work in Russia, courtesy of a friend of mine who knows a thing or two about your personal correspondences. Sherlock won't notice you're missing, will he? If I send him a bothersome text from your phone every few days he'll think everything is perfectly normal."

"Then what's the point of kidnapping me? Sherlock won't know, so he has no reason to come after me. If he is your goal, you can't get to him through me."

"Oh," he said patting Mycroft's face, "who said he was my goal? No, no, Mr. Holmes, I kidnapped the right brother, trust me. It's you who I need set far away from the workings of the British Government right now. Besides, Sherlock will go exactly where I want him to. You aren't the only person my associate has helped me acquire."

Moriarty turned on his heel, walking away from Mycroft down the long, echoing room.

"Who is your associate?" Mycroft called, making him pause.

The criminal smiled, looking back slightly over his shoulder. "I understand why I had trouble going against you two, before now. You were cheating. You and Sherlock, you had an advantage over me. There are secrets, buzzing around our little planet, aren't there. I'm just leveling the playing field, Mr. Holmes.

He shut the door behind him, leaving Mycroft tied up in the dark.

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for making it to the end! I love this version of Sherlock (especially when he's younger). If you'd like to read more be sure to check out A Childhood In The TARDIS. :)


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